Exposed
by aerocats
Summary: Waking up in his ex-husband's household is the least of Arthur Kirkland's problems: he's disliked at work, he's a borderline alcoholic, and he's about to take part in the unraveling of the largest global conspiracy ever since the Stone Age. Can he take the heat? (Title and summary is a WIP)


**A/N:** _Oh boy, now what do we have here?_

Okay, so I've been craving to write some completely edgy FrUK conspiracy shit for a while, so here's my chance. I'm just gonna state that this work is **COMPLETELY** self-indulgent, and also a total first draft. While I didn't exactly peruse this for huge mistakes, if there is one please comment and I'll fix it (seriously, please do!). I kept this lil' thing short, (shorter than I would've liked), but hopefully future chapters will be longer. I actually meant for this to only be a oneshot, but I left it off with a little cliffhanger, so we'll see what happens ;). I honestly have no idea what direction this story is going to be taken in, so it's sure to be a blast to write!

BTW: I'm going to be using mostly human names for the nations.

Without further ado, let's get onto the story!

 **Chapter 1**

I show up to his house, again, feel shuffling and sanity teetering, my drunken rambles slurring through my partially opened mouth, feeling my words ooze down my throat like sludge. I knock on his polished mahogany doors, gleaming under the moonlight, the light from the shiny brass doorknob practically ricocheting into my eyes, causing me to squint. Perhaps I am just too fucking wasted to deal with any outside stimuli right now, and I'm probably also a bit high, not on drugs (which my pathetic self never even thought to pick up on the way to the local pub) but a little bit on being back in this place, the certain tingling sensation of reencountering old ghosts only dulled a little by how positively shitfaced I am.

There's no fucking key under the welcome mat because Francis is not a goddamn idiot and actually gives a shit about home security. The fact that he's completely loaded helps a bit too. His wealth never put any dent in what shitstorm our relationship was, however, due to myself being very fucking rich as well. I am the epitome of that saying about money not buying happiness. Francis always liked the idea of people just being little bundles of concepts; we all being poster children for various aphorisms and what-fucking-ever. I guess I should've straightened this little fantasy of nobody being a real person out, except for me being the cynical kind of fuck who instead embraced this little delusion with open arms and never let the fuck go.

I guess I'm pretty bad at letting things fucking go, aren't I?

I knock a couple of times before I even realize what I'm doing: hell, it's not home invasion to say the least. I wait at least ten minutes before he answers, and it's the familiar drill. I guess to most it would be odd for their ex-husband to be completely nonchalant about showing up on their front steps, but to be honest this whole "I'm gonna show up to your house shitfaced begging for you to take me back" thing is both mutual and just simply accepted as a weekly part of our miserable, immortal lives. Sometimes we have sex, but it's mostly just a lot of tears and vomit and regret.

"It is 4:30 in the morning." Francis states, his drawling voice heavy with his thick French accent.

"Sorry, I got caught in traffic." I joke, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Please don't tell me you drove here." He whispers.

I let out a sharp laugh that's more of a cough. "Don't worry I am completely….." my stooged mind pauses, not knowing what the fuck I am saying "… Road friendly."

"Right."

"Besides, I lost my keys." Francis snickers, a move that would be considered rude if I weren't so deserving of it at this moment.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks impatiently.

"No." I take a step inside. Francis places his hand on my back, a simple gesture which causes me to flinch.

"Look, we need to talk."

"Don't we always?" Despite the calamity in which he says this, Francis's smile fades quickly.

"I just… I just don't want to do this anymore!" I slur every word of my speech, my shoulders slumped and my eyes having the crazed look of a complete drunk.

Francis's eyes widen. He takes a step back and runs his hand through his hair, frowning. He repositions himself: tall, businessman-like. "I understand. I…. Know that we don't exactly have the most- the most fulfilling of relationships, and…"

"Not our relationship!" I retort. "You know what I'm talking about."

Francis's frown grows, and he drags me further into the foyer of his house. I ignore the grandiosity of it: instead focusing on what my scatterbrained mind was trying to convey.

"C'mon Francis, you know that what we're doing is wrong."

"I thought Alfred has some good points considering the ethical factors of this… endeavor." Francis pauses. "You're not planning…"

"We could sabotage them." I whisper. "We could sabotage all of those fuckers, make them look bloody fucking insane." I could hardly contain my psychopathic grin. "We could rule the world." I grab his arm. "We could rule the _entire fucking world."_

A look of concern is written into Francis's face: a glimmer of curiosity, and perhaps hope, but mostly fear. "Arthur, I think you've had too much to drink."


End file.
